the strangers were lovers
by hesitance
Summary: She is made for composure, not passion, but she does not know what he is made for. Perhaps for breaking her. DaphneTheo


_**A/N: Title from the blog **__**I Wrote This For You**__**, lyrics at beginning and end are William Fitzsimmons. I listened to The Blower's Daughter by Damien Rice while writing. Please, please review. This is a new pairing for me; tell me how I did.**_

_**Summary: She is made for composure, not passion, but she does not know what he is made for. Perhaps for breaking her.**_

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**the strangers were lovers**

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_I just want a small part in your passion play._

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She is beautiful and she knows it, a dangerous combination.

In Slytherin, _power_ is the name of the game and she knows that looks like hers certainly don't hurt.

Draco Malfoy is the obvious ruler of Slytherin to an outsider, but anyone who knows their stuff realizes that there is _always_ a **pretty**_perfect_girl who can sit on the throne, no man needed.

Daphne Greengrass is that girl and she plays the part with style.

True ruling, she knows, is about absolute control. It requires effortless ability and emotions expressed only when they can be helpful to the cause at hand.

That's why at breakfast every morning, she lets her _just-__**too-**__**short**_ skirt ride up _that much more_, and why she allows Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini to see it.

You see, she loves the rush she gets when their eyes linger, caught in the thin strip of flesh between her skirt and the patterned stockings she has decided are the new it thing.

She loves how they make conversation as if nothing is different, how they haven't realized the other is staring at the exact same thing. (_stupid boys)_

One day, she sees him looking. Theo Nott. The grand Slytherin wild card, hair as dark as hers is light. The power jolt is incredible. He is _talldark&handsome_, a prince in looks and a loner in spirit.

And if she stretches just a little bit farther that day, well, it's just because she was tired.

-:-

She supposes she should have seen it coming, this shift in her relations with him. It is nothing overt at first, because noisy encounters and hastily composed points are not the Slytherin way.

But there is certainly a change. Suddenly, his eyes are not an infrequent visitor.

She thought she had imagined the glances until Mcgonagall's brief acknowledgment one day proved that theory entirely wrong.

They were in Transfiguration, him sitting two rows in front of her when he looked back. His head turned slowly, with a casual sort of deliberation in movement, and she let go of her class work. Their eyes met.

Something about his gaze was a challenge that she accepted, raising the stakes with a smirk. He did the same. The contact would have been enough to make her blush, perhaps, if she were not Daphne Greengrass, trained in etiquette since before she could pronounce the word itself.

About a minute later, she broke it off. She looked to the front of the class to see Mcgonagall watching the two of them, and expected a confrontation.

However, all that happened was that as she left the classroom at the end of the day, the professor gave her a rare secretive smile and whispered, "_This isn't his first time looking, but it's your first time looking back."_

Daphne, to this day, refuses to admit that those words rendered her speechless.

-:-

She avoided him for a bit, honestly. Took a few days to be demure.

When she mentioned the concept to Tracy Davis, her dorm mate and general buddy, Tracey scoffed.

"You? Demure? I thought we agreed to save the bullshit for public."

Daphne laughed a little, but she couldn't help but wonder about this beautiful, strange boy and his lovely eyes.

She fell asleep that night dreaming about distant eye contact and fateful connections.

-:-

When Pansy Parkinson decides to skip Potions for the foreseeable future _("Draco says the Dark Lord is coming back. I don't need this.")_, Daphne is in need of a partner.

Blaise shoots his partner a look that clearly says _go_, and Theo does.

He plops himself down next to her with unintentional elegance, looking vaguely annoyed, but his features smooth out quickly.

_(they've been trained for this)_

"Daphne," he says coolly.

"Theo."

Snape starts class with a crack at Potter, and there is no need for words.

Their hands bump casually during the work process, fingers overlapping, but neither comment. They turn in a beautiful vial at the end of the period, only to have Snape remark, "This is good work. You will continue to partner."

Neither complains.

-:-

About a month of partnership has gone well, she thinks, sitting on a blanket near the lake on a cool November morning. She has been sitting for several hours now. Today is a day for change, _the _day for change, perhaps.

He has not ruined her Potions grade. In fact, it may have gone up by a bit. They have not argued at all. They do not even speak most classes.

Folding her legs next to her, she watches as he jogs up. His hair is no longer neatly parted and his eyes rake over her ever-appealing figure, all sprawled out, before he can take control of the reaction.

"I've been waiting," she says.

He is confused. Understandably so. But the look of confusion passes, and he extends a hand. His nails are neat, a little squared at the edges. Their fingers lock as he pulls her up.

The two of them stand, side by side, and face the lake for a moment, hands still interlocked for hours. Not a single word is spoken.

-:-

Life moves on, the way it always seems to.

They share Potions class, eye contact in Transfiguration, and mealtime looks, unbeknownst to the rest of her house members.

This becomes somewhat of a routine, and if she doodles his name on Ancient Runes homework sometimes, well, no one will admit to it.

_(she is __**Daphne Greengrass,**__ after all, and there are standards to be kept.)_

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One day, she lingers too long in the library doing homework, meaning she must go to the Dungeons within five minutes of curfew. The hallways are empty, and at the late hour, lamps cast an almost sinister light upon the cold stone.

She walks quickly, more out of discomfort than fear, and then he emerges from some deserted corridor.

He is walking much slower, hands in pockets, until he sees her.

He stops moving. So does she.

There is a moment, there, in the hallway, where Daphne, _beautiful__**cunning**__**manipulative**_ Daphne, faces **lovely****quiet**_**ordinary**_ Theo without a word.

He looks tense, she sees distantly. He is clenching his fists in a show of informal restraint.

She straightens her posture and refuses to lower her gaze.

Suddenly, he strides forward, almost violently. He is right in front of her, and his warm breath leaves her skin tingling as he inclines his head, foreheads brushing together.

"_Daphne_," he says, and it is a prayer-moan-whisper compressed into two syllables that have never sounded so appealing.

Then, he kisses her, and it is not sweet or soft. It is the demanding force of expectation, toes curling up against her will.

He pushes her to the wall and continues. Nothing seems holy or right or normal, dimensions distorting hazily as his lips continue their ministrations. _Up_ has tilted into _down_ and she just needs _one __**fucking moment**_ to regain her cultured air, but he _knows_ and he won't give it to her.

She moans, reality slipping out of focus, as he nibbles on her bottom lip. Her fingers grab his hair and his grip tighter against the expensive fabric of her robe.

This is _salvation_ and _perfection_ and they could be any two people in the world, experiencing some sort of primal lust, enthralled in the throes of passion.

But they are not any two people, they are _Daphne—and—Theo (even their names can't be too close)_, and this point is proven when he withdraws with no warning whatsoever, turning around and taking several steps away from her.

He turns back, looking at the girl in his wake, and smirks.

"Perfection becomes boring."

Then he goes without a pause.

She thinks she should hate him for this startling invasion, or at least for his abrupt departure, but can't quite muster the energy.

This strange, silent boy shattered her defenses- _released the princess from her prison- _and did not stick around to claim his prize.

Daphne Greengrass, Slytherin royalty, is left breathing heavily against a wall with her hair disheveled and composure shattered.

She swears to herself she never felt for him anyways, but the few tears that tickle her cheek seem to discount the statement.

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_I should not have hid_

_where my heart can't follow._

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End file.
